by A. J. Aalto
Even without sharing my brand of Talents, Declan read what was crossing my face and gave a resigned nod. “Maybe if we hurry, we can all be tucked in bed for a few hours before facing the Overlord with my mother?”
We shuffled through our go-bags for dry gloves and to make sure our goodies were intact. Turning in unison, we slammed like the worst synchronized swimmers ever into Harry’s immovable form. I hadn’t heard or felt him enter the room.
“Harry! We can’t wait. We’re going to…” My words left me with my breath as the look on his face hit me.
He had the Bond closed off tightly, but even Harry, with his masterful control, could not manage to keep the hurt off his face. It was brewing a miasma of thunderous fury that rippled warningly across his brow. I opened my mouth but all that came out was a questioning squeak.
Declan spoke for me. “Something happened.” His hand went to my elbow, something I would not notice in the moment but would appreciate looking back, a small sign of concern. I’m not sure he even knew he was doing it. The look on Harry’s face was affecting him, too, and his voice came out husky. “Something big.”
Harry could not speak for his rage. His eyelids sank, fluttered, and when they opened again, his chrome eyes had gone murderous platinum. If Batten had been here, he would have said…
It was Batten.
It was Mark.
That knowledge hit me like a one-two punch. Everything I’d tried to see past, stuff down, shove aside, or bottle up boiled over in my veins and I started to tremble, trying to cling to the comfort of denial. But I knew. Harry didn’t have to say it, which was good, because the first time since I’d met him, my Cold Company was completely without the benefit of his dulciloquent tongue. There would be no comforting encouragements, no soothing words, not even a good ol’ chiding. Beneath the hurt and anger, Harry was lost.
The protective measures of the Bond rose in me like a back-up generator kicking in, and washed away all my personal considerations. Just like turning off a tap, I slammed all my needs shut and focused only on Harry, on the house, on the future.
My lips tightened. “Don’t say it, Harry,” I snapped. “Don’t. We don’t need Batten.”
Declan started, “Dr. B.?”
“We don’t.” I do. I do! Oh, Dark Lady, what has that fucking jackass done? “Harry, do you need me to stay, or can I go save the fucking planet now?”
Harry’s jaw dropped, and his face paled immediately. “Who are you, miss, and whatever have you done with my DaySitter?”
“Did he leave his holy water cologne?”
“No.” Harry made this significant with his eyes.
“His guns?”
Harry lowered his chin in a single nod.
“Confiscate everything he left behind; it belongs to House Dreppenstedt now, and since he was my Second, I want first dibs. If it hasn't already, lift the banner on him. Tell Gary that Batten’s life is legally forfeit on Svikheimslending. I'll make a full report when I return to the States.”
Declan and Harry did a collective wide-eye at me that might have been comical, if I hadn’t just sentenced Mark Batten to death. I asked tightly, “Has he betrayed the house?”
Harry dipped his chin again. “He has.”
“Hey, where’s my ‘ducky?’ You usually soften your statements with cutesy nicknames. Don’t stop that now,” I wheezed as the panic stampeded in unexpectedly, tightening my throat. “I need the goddamn nicknames, dead man!”
“Yes, ducky, of course. My fawn, my night’s embrace, my sweetest thing, my very life. Whatever you might require of me, I will of course—“
“Okay, that’s enough!” I felt like a raw nerve, a downed power line, flipping and flopping and sizzling. “I have to go use this pile of junk to convince a really pissed off and possibly deranged dead bitch to scare off some trolls! And now I have to make it through all this without Kill-Notch, because he’s… he’s…”
“Breathe, Dr. B.” Declan’s tone was warm comfort. “You’re doing fine. We’ll get past this. Just breathe.”
“I don’t wanna breathe!” I shouted at no one in particular, heard how ridiculous it was, and backtracked to sanity. “What the fuck did he do?” I demanded, pointing hard in Harry’s face. I changed my mind immediately. “No! Don’t say it! He knew the rules. He knew what he was here for. If he fucked up, that’s on him. Now he’s let me down.” He chose a staking over me. That’s what he’s done. That’s what it was. He’d planned this from the start. “Fuck him. Fuck him!” I kicked my luggage, but it didn’t move, and pain screamed through my big toe. I bellowed and then grabbed Declan. He ducked his head close to me politely to hear my growl. “When we get back, remind me to feed Mark Batten to the manticore.”
“I…” Declan stammered around an answer and didn’t find one.
Harry pulled himself straight up to full height. His fury flared anew. “Now see here, young lady. You will do no such thing. My honor, and the honor of House Dreppenstedt, has been smeared. One demands satisfaction.”
I felt the Bond open in a rush and flood my veins with the comfort of familiarity. My old Harry was back in control, if only for a moment. “Tell me you’re not talking about a duel. I’m not listening to you yammer on about duels again! You’re not going to slap Batten with your glove and go back-to-back ten paces at dawn, Harry!”
“Do try not to be ridiculous, my dearest one,” he huffed. “I wouldn’t dirty my glove on the sweaty visage of your two-bit gigolo. But mark my words: Mr. Batten is at least dismissed from my employ, and I should be very unlikely to consider him for a position in my household again.”
My mouth worked around a reply, and though my eyes threatened tears from the shock of everything that had happened in the last five minutes, a laugh erupted from my quivering gut.
“So, you're not going to tear him into Asshole McNuggets, you're only going to fire him?” I was incredulous. I thought I might vomit. I took a deep breath through my nose and let it out through pursed lips. This threatened to empty me completely, ruin me, kick me down into a well of terror and heartbreak, and I would not allow it. My stubborn dark humor reared its inappropriate head and I welcomed it. Come on, Marnie. We’ve got this. Keep moving forward. This must not stop us. “Can we return to this conversation when I get back from, you know, wyrms and lichlady and Trollpocalypse and stuff?”
Harry made an affirmative noise and dismissed me with a wave, having have made his point. Harry’s insult trumped mine, apparently, and he intended to have his vengeance. I still had only a vague suspicion about what Batten had actually done, but I knew this: the chance of him leaving Svikheimslending alive was close to zero. If he had ruffled enough feathers above Harry in the ranks, Batten was going to find himself torn apart by a beautiful creature with black-feathered wings and features sharp as a raven. I had to try to put that out of my mind, though I didn’t know how.
I tugged on Declan’s elbow. “Ready to save the world?”
“Whenever you are,” he affirmed.
Keep moving forward. This must not stop us, I repeated to myself, willing my hands to stop shaking. We’ve got this.
Harry let me get halfway down the hall before saying quietly, “Our Mark may not be alive when you return, my love. I cannot, in faith, promise this, and I can do quite literally nothing to protect him, now. If I could shield you from any of it, my pet, any of it…” His audiomancy pushed every word to me, and it felt like the cold finality of death at my back.
I kept walking and didn't look back at him. I knew he was right. I was leaving Felstein knowing I might never see Batten again. I couldn't stay. I couldn’t even take a minute to find him, to face him, to ask him what the fuck he was thinking, how he could do this to me, to Harry, to himself? Was it worth it? Batten was going to die.
Harry, for once in our relationship, did not remind me of the many times he’d warned me. There was no dead guy “told ya so” today. He had, of course, told me so, but I’d only seen what I wanted to see, wh
at I wanted to believe: that Kill-Notch Batten had a soft side reserved for me. One that would stay his hand in moments of temptation.
How ridiculous that looked, faced in the dawn of his actions. How absolutely stupid. There was the undeniable possibility that Mark Batten had only ever pretended attraction to me to get to this exact place, that he had seduced and lied and cajoled, and I had ignored it and allowed it and swallowed it whole. My ego had convinced me that I was more important than his vengeance, that his feelings for me would win any struggle he had with himself when faced with the creatures he’d hunted his whole life…the things that killed his family and taunted him afterward. I'd thought his promises were true. And I had been more than just wrong. I’d been a silly girl, smitten with a hunk of muscle with a single focus, and the focus sure as hell wasn’t on me. If he wasn't dead when I got back, I was going to kill him.
I felt Declan’s hand in mine. It was small for a man’s hand, and warm for an immortal, warm right through my glove, and not at all comforting. My stride did not falter. I couldn’t even imagine where Batten was right now. How could he have thought he’d get away with it?
How could I go home without Batten?
What would my sister Carrie say? She’d be horrible about it, lamenting the loss of a hot piece of ass and completely ignoring my feelings about the person who had reached through my prickly defenses to touch my heart.
How could I face Gary Chapel? I knew what I’d see on his face. Nothing. Gary would mourn in private. He would show quiet, professional concern, and ask non-threatening questions until he understood what had happened.
What would I tell Golden? “I hope you enjoyed the spa and the bar, Batten is dead, let’s truck it”?
What would Wes say when he plucked this out of my mind? Would Rob Hood up my long distance running to help me sweat away the agony? Would he let me punch him a lot?
Would there even be enough left of Kill-Notch to have a funeral? My morbid brain flashed pictures obsessively of his corpse, and how the skin would pale beneath the hash mark tattoos on his chest. That perfectly warm, reassuringly thudding chest that I used to put my cheek against and…
No! Nope. This was taking too long. I had to hurry. I had to talk. “Declan?”
“Yes, Dr. B.?”
I looked at him. “How am I going to scare the troll if he shows up before you can release Remy?”
I said it just to have something to say. My voice was thick with horror and heartache, and I couldn’t have hidden it anyway. As we started down the stairs, Declan did me the favor of not looking at me, which was good, because my vision was blurring with stupid, stupid tears.
“Kick him?”
“Can you kick trolls?”
“Sure, why not? They've got shins and bits, right?”
I didn’t know why not. I’d never tried to kick a troll. We fled through the cold night from Felstein to Skulesdottir, hauling our artifacts and keeping our heads down. “What if he’s too big to kick?” I asked.
“Flash him your boobs.”
“Are you trying to cheer me up?”
“Of course.” We rounded a tight corner and nearly collided with two DaySitters hurrying about their business. I didn’t recognize them, but they knew me, because they gasped and made a gap for us to plow through, shrinking away from us like we had something contagious or a giant loaf of garlic bread.
“I have a problem with your plan,” I admitted.
“Oh?”
“I have no boobs.”
“Shit,” Declan said, conspicuously not arguing with me. “Should I flash him my penis?”
We rushed through the empty throne room, eyes averted from the banners. There were treacherous whispers in the corners, hisses or wind through the stones, but neither of us paused to see if there were beings there. I heard the click of high heeled shoes tracking us from over my left shoulder; whoever it was, they didn’t come out into the light thrown by the gas lanterns. A massive fire crackled in the fireplace, unattended. Hand in gloved hand, Declan and I rushed down the servants’ stairs, rounding corners, retracing our steps without needing to consult one another. I could have found my way back with my eyes closed. Hell calls a body, or rather, it calls a soul.
I whispered, “Did Harry call Batten my gigolo?”
Declan snort-laughed unexpectedly and tried to squelch it. “Yes, Dr. B.”
I swallowed a nervous giggle of my own. “That was uncalled for.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah. I never paid him for the sex.”
Declan said, “We should have brought Harry along to help.”
“Couldn’t risk it,” I disagreed. “Three-Face said I couldn’t have his help, remember? I don’t want there to be some sort of demon loophole. We have to fetch Remy on our own.”
We paused at the door behind beside the cooks’ cupboards. Behind it was a gateway to Hell. I was fairly certain if a bad guy died, his soul slipped through the official Hellmouth, which was guarded by Leviathan beneath the Bermuda Triangle. I suspected this gateway wasn’t for human souls, but for demons who had to commute.
We moved past it, through the king’s collection room again to find the back door.
Declan said, “Don’t touch anything in here, Dr. B.”
I nodded rapidly. “Don’t touch anything in the room next to Hell,” I whispered. “Noted for future reference, though it seems like a no-brainer.” I checked the quirk of his eyebrow. “Oh, I see what you’re doing. You callin’ me a dumb-dumb?”
“Never that, Dr. B,” he said, but I felt like he was trying to channeling Golden and trying to cheer me up with insults. “I think your boyfriend is following us.”
My kneejerk reaction was to remind him that Batten wasn’t my boyfriend, but when I glanced around, I heard the clink of a buckle hitting a wall. Folkenflik was back in the straightjacket. “Oh, the furry one,” I said. “Great, just what we need. A literal lunatic.”
“He likes you.”
“He bit me and peed on my shoe.”
“Not at the same time,” Declan said, as though this made it all better.
“Does he like me better than his DaySitter buddy?” I asked. “Or is he still following her orders? Does she still want me dead?”
“Maybe,” Declan said. “Maybe he’ll bite the troll for you.”
I double-tapped the dog whistle under my shirt again to reassure myself and Declan that it was still there. “Just what we need,” I said. “A troll shapeshifter. What would that even be?”
“A were-troll? A trollfox? A trollcanthrope?”
“If we meet a were-troll, I quit,” I said sternly. “I mean, I’ve quit lots of times before, but this time, I’ll mean it for realsies.”
“You’re a warrior, Glenda. And warriors don’t throw in the towel when the odds are against them.”
“Isn’t it Tuesday yet? Tuesday’s my day off.”
“It’s Monday, Dr. B.,” Declan lied. I promised myself that the minute I got home, I’d pretend the next whole month was made of Tuesdays.
Chapter 36
The Olmdalur held no ferals this time, nor did it seem to contain any DaySitters and their pesky Seconds, though they were no longer my greatest worry. In the distance to the East, Rask had anchored the Meita over the Arctic trench where Prince Duchoslav the Undertaker had arranged for the sinking of Remy Dreppenstedt’s shipping container. Since she’d been down there for so long, I was forced to wonder what containers from that era looked like. How had they bound it? Were there silver chains and crosses, as we’d seen on the others? Would Declan be able to get through them?
As I’d feared, the troll scout was close. The fog parted to reveal a ship that looked like it had seen better days. Hasty repairs had been made in a slapdash manner, boards hammered to the hull and slapped with big iron bands, perhaps to take advantage of the unexpected parting of the portal. The sails were tattered along the edges but larger rips had been haphazardly stitched and patched. This was no little fishing bo
at; low but fast, this was a ship for a silent landing party slipping up through the fog. The troll ship had a dragon’s head at the bow. Behind it, or rather looming over it, was what I assumed was the troll scout. I glanced over my shoulder. “So, uh, none of the revenant houses are out here to help us, eh?”
“It doesn’t appear so, but maybe that’s for the best,” Declan barely breathed beside me. “We don’t need an audience for this.”
“Sounds like you’re expecting me to flub it.”
“I have met you,” he admitted, glancing past me towards the open water. “Oh, damn. So that’s a troll.”
“Yep.” Neither of us had seen a living one. He looked gigantic, even from this distance, and he wasn't alone. His crew was hunkered low. Oars slipped in and out of icy water without making a sound.
Declan asked, “Am I seeing things, or does he have more than one head?”
“Those aren’t his heads,” I said, squinting. “Only the one in the middle is his. He’s got severed heads on spikes on his shoulder pads.”
“That’s a pretty good intimidation tactic,” Declan noted breathlessly, his eyes wide.
I swallowed hard and my throat made a dry click. “I fucking told you this was a bad idea.”
“You never did.”
“I told you humpty-nine times that this was a bad idea.”
“This was your idea.”